


close as strangers

by xTammyVx



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeup Sex, Memories, Post-Break Up, Rimming, Song Inspired, Texting, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTammyVx/pseuds/xTammyVx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They broke up because they wanted different things more than they wanted each other, but maybe that’s about to change.</p><hr/><p>One Direction's contract ended in 2016, and the boys didn't renew. Now—over half a year since Niall left for a solo tour—Niall and Zayn have broken up, Zayn has moved out, and they've started texting again. The thing is that it's turning out to be a little bit more than small-talk and politeness, and Niall can't help but wonder if they're ready to give themselves another shot at happiness after all this time apart.</p><p>Based on <i>Spaces</i>, <i>18</i>, <i>Clouds</i>, and <i>Where Do Broken Hearts Go</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	close as strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Zayn and Niall have broken up (mutual thing) but they’ve been texting each other lately and hook up? Based on Spaces, 18, and Clouds?_  
>  \--Anon
> 
> I'm putting my personal note at the bottom of the fic, because I don't want any readers to be warded off by its cheesiness.
> 
> Cheers to my betas, [freakforhoran](http://freakforhoran.tumblr.com/), [laziallgna](http://laziallgna.tumblr.com/), and [nekedniall](http://nekedniall.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Edit: [Mikaela](http://ouimichael.tumblr.com/) sent me [this post](http://versaceloui.tumblr.com/post/102776623810/niall-horan-21-known-for-being-a-member-of-the) to include.

It’s 9pm on Saturday when Niall’s phone lights up. He plays it cool, pretends to be distracted by the telly (though there’s no audience to witness his less-than-Oscar-worthy performance) while grabbing blindly at the duvet till he finds the sleek screen, probably smearing it with popcorn grease. Extra butter. Zayn likes his popcorn dry and salty, so Niall tries to keep that in mind as he taps open the text – that with Zayn gone, he can have his popcorn as sticky as he fucking likes.

 _Hey_ , Zayn’s message says. _How’s it?_

Sometimes Niall wonders what “it” is. Being single? Being alone? Spending his spare time cramming in as many Family Guy episodes as possible? Buttery snacks? He figures “it” just means “your day”.

Niall says, _Good :) how’s yours ?_

They’ve been texting each other every night for two weeks. Before, it was scattered, messages going back and forth three nights in a row, then three weeks of nothing but _Read 18:21_ and awkward conversation starters, and repeat. The difference now is that whatever the fuck they’ve been doing recently actually feels like a _something_ , rather than _some things_. It feels real. They talk about what they had for dinner, and whom they’re rooting for on Big Brother, rather than just sports and the weather.

When they broke up, it wasn’t with plates smashed on the door, wasn’t with voices raised, wasn’t sprinkled with bitterness and dagger-sharp comments through their teeth. Niall helped Zayn put his things into boxes. Those boxes went into his car, and Niall dropped Zayn off with them at his front door, but there were so many, so he got out and helped Zayn move them into his house. Niall nearly stayed to lend a hand unpacking before he remembered that it wasn’t his job anymore to take care of Zayn and avoid a mess of apocalyptic proportions cluttering the off-white carpet they chose together. With a text to Louis and a pat-on-the-back, no-eye-contact hug, he left. And that was that, apparently. Ta-ta. The end. Next, please.

Niall had tried that, too, but he couldn’t find anyone who’d let him laugh when their bodies made those weird sounds only ever appropriate for sex. He’d cook them breakfast and they would leave before eating it, so Niall would force his feelings back into his stomach with a helping of two extra eggs and some bacon to weigh them down. If Harry was in England at the time, he’d get a call. Niall’d be like, _I’ve done it again_ , _please come over_ , _help me put my sheets on the washing line_ , _there’s jizz on them again_ , _yeah_ , _sorry_. It was the type of phone call that probably happened way too often. Harry is so very patient, and Niall is so very lucky to have him.

He wishes he could be in love with someone else, but nobody quite fits that Zayn-shaped mold indented into his kitchen and his bed and his settee, so it all feels moot.

As he curls into his duvet, bunching the top around his head like a hood because his ears get cold, Niall’s phone beeps with a reply.

_Cool. Louis and I went shopping and I bought a ping pong table aha :) We’re wild!_

Niall farts loudly, and the volume would’ve impressed him if he wasn’t busy remembering when a little “x” sat at the end of these kinds of texts. He needs a drink. Maybe then he won’t remember so much.

Uncomfortable with the way his stomach gets all topsy-turvy, he tries to think of a way to reply to that without sounding desperate. He types, _Sick! Can I come and see ? Wish I had one!_ but cringes. Backspace-backspace-backspace. _Sick! Can I see a photo ?_

_Sure :)_

It’s a standard ping pong table; Niall isn’t sure what he expected. Zayn has it set up in the den, near his vintage arcade games (the proper ones like Pinball and Space Invaders that take 20p a go, the ones that he and Zayn used to compete on for blow jobs) and his pool table. Niall remembers teaching Zayn how to play in a pub in Mullingar, Zayn much more patient than Harry had been about the rules and the technique. He practised for months after that, _months_ —

 _Nice !_ Niall writes back. _You’re building quite the collection. Have Louis and Eleanor moved in yet ? Hahahahaha_

 _No_ _:( Wish they had…_

A bird whose nest is built in the tree next to Niall’s house rustles around on the wooden ledge, rifling through the seeds Niall puts out in a yoghurt pot duct-taped to his bedroom window. One of her babies must be hungry. Niall sent everyone a Snapchat of them yesterday; Zayn sent back a photo of his sister’s cat yawning, captioned, _Rawr! Aha_ and the cat emoji.

Niall reads the text again and frowns. Maybe he’s misunderstanding, but those dots at the end offset the fun tone, and then it occurs to Niall that he hasn’t spoken to Zayn face-to-face in ages, hasn’t seen his face or his clothes or his hair. Zayn could be lonely, and Niall would have no idea. The man he loved—present tense, even—could be doing that mouth-twitch at the ceiling like he does when he’s bored or upset, and Niall would have no way of knowing, and the knot that ties in his windpipe is _painful_.

 _Why?_ he finally asks.

_Read 21:13_

Scratching his wrist and wriggling into his duvet’s safe haven of pillows and comfort, Niall tries to shake off what he’s feeling. He wants Zayn to be happy; they didn’t break up because they didn’t love each other anymore. He still cares.

_I guess I’ve spent so much time being alone that it’s turned into loneliness. Never had that happen before._

Then, _I don’t like it_.

Niall can’t help the way his fingers move, flashing over the keyboard as his breath comes in long, slow shudders of anticipation.

 _I miss you_ , he says.

The little tick has barely appeared before it’s replaced by Zayn’s text.

_I miss you, too :/_

A small burst of warmth that has nothing to do with the heat pump he had installed nor his stupidly expensive bedding beats brightly from Niall’s heart, like it’s filling him up. Hope? He has no idea. He wants so many things, and this feels good, these words feel _right_.

 _Been thinking lots about you_. He grins at his phone. _I was going through my DVDs and I found a few of yours. Watched them all because you liked them so much !_

Zayn could be splayed out on the sofa, or leaning against his new ping pong table, but Niall imagines him in his own bed, half on his front, arms looped around his pillow. That’s how he sleeps when he’s alone. When he was with Niall, he’d hold on forever, the two of them such cuddlers that their sleeping positions were never questioned so long as they could koala themselves around each other. In his head, Niall fixes Zayn with a sleepy grin.

 _I thought I was missing a few aha! Which ones did you watch?_ Zayn replies.

Niall thinks. _Pulp Fiction, Ususal Suspects, White Chicks, and a couple others_.

_“Ususal” aha. YOU have my White Chicks?? I’ve been hounding Louis for months! Oops :P_

The sentence feels incomplete without that _x_ to punctuate it, though Niall’s not about to give up.

 _Haha, sorry ! I’ll tell him it’s all my fault ! Promise_ , he writes, smiling to himself.

 _All good. Just happy to know that it ended up in safe hands_. Niall bites his lip and goes to press the little white box, this conversation exceeding expectations of small talk and good-night small talk. Another message comes in. _I was thinking about you too. Thought you might want to play beer pong sometime? I have no idea how it works aha. You would know, yeah? :)_

His fingernails pressing crescents onto his palm, Niall refills his lungs of the air they’re pushing in and out too quickly. He’s projecting a grin into the dark like an idiot, and it’s not helped when he rereads that message – rereads that Zayn _thought about him_. Wants him to play beer pong. Wants to _see Niall_ again.

 _You want me to come over sometime and teach you?_ he asks. He taught Zayn to play pool at seventeen. They’re in their twenties now, so it fits that they’re upping their game. He could touch Zayn’s arm and show him how to bounce the ball, watch that pleased blush spread like wildfire on Zayn’s big-eyed grin of victory and excitement when he lands one.

They’ve been texting for barely twenty minutes and he’s nearly overflowing with happiness.

_Yeah! Sick :)_

They go back and forth for a little while, then Niall finally admits to both himself and Zayn that he’s exhausted. No _x_ tonight, but he’ll get there.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

_Been thinking lost_

_*lots aha oops_

_About you I mean_

The three texts come one after another, stopping Niall from his halfarsed clean of the bathroom.

 _Yeah?_ he writes. _What about me?_

Zayn sees it. Niall waits. He lines up his hair products in alphabetical order first, but that looks weird, annoys him, so he sets them out in height order instead.

_Miss talking tyou_

Niall can’t tell if he’s hurt or not that Zayn’s drunk and can’t even spell properly.

 _You pissed?_ he asks.

_Yeah srory. Are you sleeping?_

Wow. _No, just cleaning. How would I be sleeping if I’m texting you ? :P Silly !_ Niall goes back to tidying away his razor and shaving things, putting them under the sink, above the toilet paper and hand soap refill.

 _Oh right. But are you by yourself?_ Zayn asks.

_Yeah. Who would I be with ? haha_

Maybe Zayn knows that Niall slept about, and that’s why he’s asking. Or maybe he thinks the lads are around, wrecaing havoc and watching the footie. Derby’s not playing tonight, and Niall’s tired, but usually he’d be at the pub anyway, cheering and betting rounds with his mates.

The reply takes a little while. _I don’t know, just through you might be with someone else_

_*thought ffs_

Zayn calls, his ringtone like everybody else’s. (It used to be a recording of him saying, “I’m a Bradford Badboy, yo,” over and over.) Even though it’s a tremendously bad idea, Niall slides right, answering.

“Thought I should call, b’fore I, like, make a bigger dick of m’self,” Zayn mumbles. “In writing, at least.”

“Nah, it’s alright.” One big breath. _Keep fucking breathing_. “Good to hear your voice.” He’s not kidding – Zayn still has that smooth vibrato, the silky depth of it not lost through the phone at all in spite of his less-than-sober state.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Zayn says. “Can’t believe we went from, like, talking first and last thing to nothing. Was awful not havin’ anyone to text when Backstreet Boys came on shuffle.”

“You could’ve texted. I would’ve laughed,” Niall tells him.

“I think that would’ve been overstepping my mark as, like, your ex,” Zayn snorts, and pauses, either because he’s just said aloud that he is, in fact, Niall’s ex, or to take a drink, maybe, since there’s a light _ting_ of a bottle in the background. Niall could use a drink, too. “What did you do, today?”

“Had some friends over for lunch, cleaned up. I was just getting ready for bed, actually. About to brush my teeth.”

Zayn doesn’t say, “I’ll let you get back to that,” or “Should I go, then?” He says, “Do you still use the same toothpaste? Whitening, peppermint flavoured?”

Niall hates that he remembers that, and probably remembers the mornings where they used to brush their teeth pre-morning sex before realising that neither of them really cared. Does he also remember the half-Sundays they spent in bed, sleeping on and off, cuddling, talking about what they had planned for the week, what they were going to have for tea? Does he remember pinching Niall’s nipples and tickling his armpits till Niall swore he’d wet the bed?

“They released a new one that’s bubblegum flavoured, so I’ve got that instead,” Niall grins. He’s just used it, taste still fresh and icy in his mouth.

“Oh,” Zayn says, sounding drunkenly disappointed, and Niall feels bad, like he let Zayn down somehow.

It’s quiet for the longest time, both of them staying on the phone while Niall goes about finishing up in the bathroom. He puts his toothbrush in the holder, where it used to sit alongside Zayn’s before it hit him that Zayn wasn’t coming home and he snapped it in half and threw the broken pieces out after he had a good, long cry on the bathroom floor. He hasn’t thought about that in months, but he’s thinking about it now. He wonders if Zayn’s thinking about toothbrushes, too.

As Niall pads through the hardwood corridor to his bedroom, Zayn makes a weird, shuddery sound. Niall stops, listens, frowns.

“Zayn?”

“I…” Zayn swallows loudly and hiccups at the same time. “I never should’ve done that t’you, tried to make you stop going on that fuckin’ tour. You were doing what you love and I was…”

“Zayn,” Niall says, voice slower and more exhausted. He drags his feet through his doorframe and sits on the rocking chair in his bedroom corner.

“I never said that I was sorry. I’m sorry,” Zayn sobs. “God, _fuck_. I was just _tired_ , yeah? The fuckin’ badboy. Every time they saw me after we came out, they took photos, and if I talked to _anyone_ , those magazines and the internet thought I was either doing drugs or fucking them and not you, or both. Then it finally died down, and you said you wanted to do it again and I was so— _scared_ , I was fucking scared of _losing you_ and it happened anyway, Niall. It fucking happened anyway.” A sniffle and a wet heave of breath put a pause in his words. “And it’s so unfair, because we were so good together, and I loved you so much, and, like, at the end of the day I thought that would be enough, but it wasn’t.”

Niall waits till he’s done to make soothing sounds, no sentences, all little hums and hushes, and at one point he even says, “Zaynie.” The nickname he used to use all the time now falls dry on his tongue like a lump of sand in his throat because it’s been so long. At that, Zayn stops bubbling quietly and actually calms down some more, enough to talk without going so wobbly, even though his voice is still thick when he speaks.

“I wish I’d never left you,” he says.

“I know,” Niall sighs.

“Do you wish that? If… I don’t know, like. If things were different.”

Slumping against the wall, Niall knows that Zayn’s not sober enough for this conversation. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

Silence greets his suggestion, holding out only to be broken by Zayn swallowing again and sighing hard, like he’s giving up.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees reluctantly. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Niall nods. “Go to bed, yeah? Take care of yourself. Brush your teeth, and don’t sleep in your clothes.” He listens as Zayn does each of those things, one after another, the duvet rustling like a mirror to Niall’s. This time he doesn’t have to question where Zayn is, and that helps somewhat. “Good night, alright?”

“Alright,” Zayn hums.

Alright, then.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall’s been having doubts about doing his second European tour since One Direction broke up (another mutual thing – Liam was getting married, Harry was moving to America, Eleanor and Louis had a new puppy, and Zayn and Niall were moving in together). It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it, but he doesn’t know if he wants to do it without Zayn again. Last time had been such a nervous rush about doing his first solo thing that he simply hadn’t had the time to be lonely. Besides, he had mates in every country to take him out or watch movies in his hotel room.

This year, he feels like God is giving him and Zayn another chance, one that could be compromised by his signature at the bottom of a contract. They broke up because they wanted different things more than they wanted each other, but maybe that’s about to change. Maybe time apart has given them both a different perspective.

Telling his manager that he’ll think about it—even though he’s been thinking about it for a month so far—maybe isn’t wise, especially with Syco already asking him to hurry up.

He phones Zayn when he gets home, changed out of his suit and tie to hang sweats off his hips, matched with a Spiderman tee shirt. The thought that he should change, like his top will affect his decision making, has him stopping to consider, but no.

 _Free?_ he sends.

Licking mandarin juice off his fingers a moment later, Niall gets a reply; _Yeah of course :)_

“Hey,” Zayn breathes when he answers, obviously relieved. Did he honestly think that Niall wouldn’t call?

“Hello,” Niall says. “Do you remember last night?”

Sheepishly, Zayn tells him he does.

That’s good.

“I meant that. All of it. Doesn’t matter that I was piss-drunk, but if it does, I’ll say it again,” Zayn admits quietly.

Closing his eyes as his stomach does a big swoop of excitement in time with his heart pinging against his ribs, Niall says with a smile, “Tell me again.” He thinks of Zayn licking his lips. Zayn’s face going pinkish and hopeful. _Zayn_.

“They always said that Louis was the preener,” Zayn mutters.

“They also said that Louis was the gay one,” Niall reminds him.

“Yeah, but…” Zayn doesn’t finish, choosing to use the time to articulate the things he’s no doubt been over-thinking since the second he woke up. Niall knows him that well, at least. “I guess the place to start is breakfast, yeah? I mean, like, I miss eating with you,” he says, easy to begin with. “Dinners, too. Sitting in the living room’s alright, but I like how you set up the table when we did it posh. Like, if I remember right, the placemats and the bottom of the cutlery go a thumb’s width from the table’s edge, som’ng like that, and you work your way in with your cutlery. We’d have everything all fancy, and I’d look up from whatever and see you across from me, stuffin’ your face with whatever monstrosity you’re eating. That’s what I miss.”

“Chicken sandwiches aren’t monstrosities,” Niall protests, weak already.

“Are with the way you eat them,” Zayn snorts.

Niall shrugs shamelessly, playing with his sweatpants’ drawstring. “Yeah, well… What else? Or do you just wanna talk about my eating?”

The tender tone Zayn uses tells of his smirk and the memories behind it, so many memories. “Hey, the meals with you are never boring.” A little hum. He’s thinking. “Days, like, waking up with you were my favourite days, and when Louis and Eleanor went on holiday and left Smelly Pete with us and you let him sleep in our bed, and he drooled, and you let him lick your face – that was fucking disgusting but too funny. How my hands felt, pressed to your cheeks. Those are the things I miss. And getting to touch you. God, I miss you laughing at everything all the time just ’cause you can.” He’s spiraling into the deep stuff as easily as Niall does when it’s 1am and he’s wondering if it’s worth downsizing the bed in his spare room and sleeping there instead, just to feel less like there’s an empty space beside him.

“Yeah?” Grinning, Niall flushes all the way down to his thighs, nervous and knocked off his feet by the loving warmth that floods him as though these things happened just yesterday and not little over half a year ago. “Fuck,” he laughs softly.

Zayn chuckles a little. “Does that turn you on?”

That makes Niall cackle loudly – it’s their inside joke from when they were eighteen. (One night on the bus, they were watching telly with Louis when Niall let out a fart that was foul even by his standards. Louis, shirt pulled up over his nose like his post-show, sweaty stink was any better, looked at Zayn as though the awful smell was _his_ fault, not Niall’s.

“You fuck him, Zayn,” Louis had squawked overdramatically. “You knowingly kiss a human being who creates that kind of stench _on the mouth_. Does that turn you on? _Does it_?” Ever since then it was a question that got lobbed into all sorts of conversations, as it was never left to die thanks to the five lads who couldn’t help themselves once they discovered a surefire way to irk laughs from each other.)

They calm down and Niall realises that it’s his turn to speak. Of all the things he imagined himself telling Zayn—the sad things, the happy things, the hurt things, the things he’d never had a chance to voice or was too shy to say or couldn’t put into words at the time—he picks one that suddenly comes to mind, hurled out of this whirlwind month of texts and two phone calls after such a quiet buzz. It’s the whiplash that makes him say, “Why don’t you come over and find out?”

Niall glances through the curtains, sky well into the nighttime blackness with hardly any stars blinking from behind the idling clouds. He can’t believe he just did that.

Zayn’s audible smirk drops completely. “Are you serious?”

Once again, a questionable decision has been made. Niall wants to blame the tee shirt. Or Zayn. In the end, he realises that it’s just how he feels, and he’s always been like that – honest.

And, _honestly_ , just the possibility of Zayn walking through that door has his heart taking on a jellyish texture, wobbling when he swallows. Zayn could come over, they could have coffee, and they could talk. Or they could make love. Reconnect. Niall knows which one he’d rather but not which one would be the more sensible option in a string of not-so-sensible ideas.

“Yeah,” Niall whispers with a grin. “Come and taste my bubblegum toothpaste.”

“Sick,” Zayn agrees, no hesitation to his name. “Alright. Let me call a cab, yeah?”

Niall nods. “Yeah, cool.”

“See you in a bit,” Zayn says, and hangs up.

All of a sudden the situation becomes embarrassingly similar to being fifteen and having his girlfriend over for the first time; Niall figures that the lobby and living room (AKA his pride and joy) are good to go, but his room’s a tip, and he needs a wash. A taxi will take roughly twenty minutes, giving Niall enough time to hop into the shower, using up half his bodywash to scrub off the day’s grime and sweat. For one mind-numbing second, Niall wonders if Zayn will be up for some rimming. Christ. By the time he’s hastily drying himself off, his cock, balls, and arse practically sparkle.

The text Zayn has sent him came two minutes ago; _You have to tell me now before I get there – what are we doing? Are we getting back together? Because I don’t know if I can do this to myself if we’re just hooking up :/_

 _We’re fixing this :) x_ Niall sends back, and hopes that it’s enough. He can’t fully explain himself over a text.

His shoes go at the bottom of his closet; his clothes—even the clean ones—go into the hamper, and the hamper to the laundry room. He makes the bed. Remakes it. Fills his glass of water up and puts it on the bedside table, and tissues, condoms, and lube in the drawer. It’s been forever since he’s brought someone here to have sex, and he feels like he’s forgotten something, which is ridiculous since his past few days have been nothing but nostalgia, nostalgia, nostalgia—

The doorbell goes. Niall’s socks have him swerving dangerously at the corners as he rushes to let Zayn through the front gate, pulling the door open. Zayn is huddled up in slashed skinny jeans and a black coat with charcoal gloves, his hair swooping in wisps and waves around his jaw, barely an inch off his shoulders.

“Thank god,” Zayn hisses. “Was freezing my tits off, like.”

“So you’ve got tits, now? What else have I missed?” Niall asks as Zayn peels off his gloves, mouth knowing no filter when Zayn looks like _that_. He’s beautiful, of course, and it’s not a surprise but that doesn’t stop Niall from staring.

Zayn steps closer and widens his eyes, says like it’s obvious, “Like, not anymore. Froze them off, haven’t I?”

Reaching up just as he’s done loads of times before, Niall slides the collar off Zayn’s shoulders while Zayn tugs at the sleeves. Even with these simple things, they work in sync, so Niall’s not sure if it’s automatic—muscle memory or something—when he and Zayn lean in at the same time.

When they were younger, and Niall shorter, Zayn would have to dip his head for a kiss, but now they’re the same height, pressing their noses together gently with no ducking or tiptoes. Zayn kisses him slower than he used to, hands safely on Niall’s hips and straying no further, and Niall knows him well enough to realise that he’s scared of cocking it up. Wrapping his arms around Zayn and pulling on the fabric at the small of his back, Niall takes that plunge for him with little to no questions about what he wants.

“God,” Zayn whispers, opening his mouth against Niall’s with a soft sigh through his nose. His fingers creep to Niall’s back and slide up his top, spreading tentatively over the skin he’s rediscovering. He smoothes his hand down till it rests lower on Niall’s hip, on his pants’ waistband. His breath tastes like coffee, and he smells like the Gucci bottles that he keeps lined up in release date order. Niall wants to grab his top and nuzzle his nose against the cotton, like a puppy.

“Come on,” Niall grins, taking Zayn’s hand and pulling him to the bedroom, their fingers clasped tightly so that all it takes is a light tug as they’re halfway there for Niall to fall back into Zayn’s arms for another kiss. Niall giggles into it, stumbling backwards as they laugh and bite and lick their way into each other’s mouths, nearly slipping because Niall’s still only wearing socks and he can’t see where he’s going, all of his attention lost to Zayn instead.

At the doorframe, Zayn stops, looks around. It’s been painted and redecorated since he left because that’s what Harry’s hippie books recommended, and Niall was too numb and empty-headed to argue. They arranged everything before deciding that what he really needed was a new coat of paint as well, hence the minty green tint to the walls.

He’s got the same duvet cover, same throw, and that seems like enough of an anchor to get Zayn moving and grinning again. Making their way over while their clothes reacquaint themselves with the floor like the good old days, Niall decides to leave their trousers on for the time being. He’s always loved it when Zayn rutted against him, heft of his dick stuck in the teeny-tiny skinny jeans they took to wearing when they were twenty, once again on Harry’s insistence.

Zayn pushes him onto the bed, opens Niall’s thighs to make room for himself. He fucking moans as though it’s heaven just to grind their dicks together. If Niall’s seventeen year old self, who’d just gotten his first hand job and swore that there was no turning back, could see how much present-Niall is getting off on shifting his hips up to meet Zayn’s, he’d… well, he’d probably still be pretty pleased with himself because Zayn's even more of a knock-out now, which seemed impossible at the time. His feather-soft hair is falling from behind his ears and dragging on Niall’s cheeks when they move, shoulders as broad and firm as Niall remembers. When Zayn groans it’s an angel singing in Niall’s ear.

“Nothin’ about me’s changed,” Niall whispers. “Still love the way you suck cock. I didn’t get my boobs done, and there’s no surprise circumcision, either.” He breaks off into a deep grunt as Zayn thrusts hard.

“So you won’t mind,” Zayn smirks, biting his lip for a second, fingers playing with the white band of Niall’s briefs, “if I check for m’self?”

“Check away,” Niall grins as he props one hand behind his head.

Zayn pins Niall’s hips to the bed and holds them there, working in a few more dirty rubs while one hand slips up and squeezes Niall’s inner thigh – the meaty bit, the bit Zayn loved to massage and grope whenever he could sneak a hand between Niall’s legs in dressing rooms, in the van, during movie nights, a subtle promise of filthy things to come. Ha. _Come_. Zayn takes a big breath before he eases away from Niall to help him shuffle out of his sweatpants, leaving him in his briefs.

Since this would usually be about the time that Zayn went down on him, Niall is surprised when Zayn stands up, bending and wriggling as he struggles to get his jeans off his ankles, straightening to reveal his small hips and little arse highlighted by his red pants. Niall gives his bum a good smack as he settles down again, cackling even though Zayn winces.

“Thought getting a spanking was your thing,” Zayn teases.

Niall shrugs and shoves him off, peeling off his own pants, moving to straddle Zayn, sitting on his dick. “Do you remember what else I like?” he asks. As a hint, he cups Zayn’s covered cock and weighs the tip down with his palm. “I like this.”

Zayn’s eyes are big and wide and happy, his lashes thick, little crinkles forming underneath them. He goes for Niall’s dick as he’s saying, “What a coincidence. I like _this_.” He lets Niall’s free hand find stability on his chest while he gets familiar with the right speed and pressure, catching on too bloody easily for Niall’s toes to stop from flexing and curling when he wipes a slick thumb through the slit.

“You know what I like even _more_ than you being a fucking kiss-arse?” Niall tips up Zayn’s chin and admires his face, up so close and personal after a forever of wondering how’s it’s changed, if he’s boasting stubble or scruff or a clean slate, if his eyebrows are neat or untamed, if his mouth still tilts into a cocky grin whenever Niall tells him how good he is with it. “You kissing my fucking arse.”

“Ah, wordplay. Clever,” Zayn nods sarcastically.

“Mm, babe, your face is lookin’ more and more like a seat with every word,” Niall moans, playfully stroking a finger down Zayn’s cheekbone.

Zayn scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Saddle up, then.”

Niall does an internal cheer of something along the lines of _fucking sick_ but then remembers that Zayn had never once asked him to be quiet unless they _had_ to, so he says it aloud for good measure as he knee-walks up the bed. Thighs parted wide over Zayn’s head, Niall raises his index fingers and thumbs to make a rectangle like a photo. “Lookin’ good between my legs, Malik.”

Thumb sliding over his tongue, Zayn just scoffs and shakes his head, obviously more than okay with being in this position, definitely comfortable enough to take a little teasing. He rubs that wet thumbpad against Niall’s hole while he revels in the soft intake of air from Niall, and he’s very pretty sucking on one of Niall’s balls—no joke—but Niall needs _more_ , greedy for as much as he can get when he hasn’t had a daily dose of Zayn since January. Niall pushes down, stretched around the tip of Zayn’s thumb, eyes slipping closed as he gets comfy.

Zayn’s tongue feels good inside him, teamed up with his fingers to create the perfect mix of pressure and give and _tease_ on Niall’s rim and taint, while Niall just leans back with his hips tilted forward, taking it. He can hear Zayn wanking behind him, fist twisting at the tip because that’s how Zayn likes it. He’s so good at this, so perfect. Niall is extra loud to give Zayn every bit of the credit and confidence that he deserves for giving such amazing head, middle and index finger going nice and slowly over his prostate.

“Can we get under the covers?” he asks, panting and croaky.

They work off the last of their clothes, grins meeting for kisses as Niall’s socks come off, and Zayn’s pants. The duvet sits bunched at Zayn’s hips, his armpits on Niall’s thighs so his fingers can dig into Niall’s arse cheeks and keep them wide open. Niall’s dick stays pinned between his stomach and the mattress as he tries his best not to come.

It’s normally not this difficult, not so mind-consuming, to keep his cool. He’s smiling when he gasps, sure, but he’s also making a sticky fucking mess of his sheets, spit leaking down his taint and balls; one of them will have to lie in that wet patch, he realises with an internal cringe. Zayn plucks his strings with the pointed tip of his tongue tracing Niall’s hole in a spiral, finally dipping inside only to be replaced by three eager, greedy fingers.

“Come up ’ere,” Niall smirks over his shoulder, propped on his elbows so he’s half-twisted. Zayn looks up over the swell of his bum, grin cocked and open, chin and nose slick, his brows taunting.

“Not done yet,” he says.

Niall purposefully lowers his voice, pulling it to the roughest edge he can manage, which is easy considering the state of him. “Ugh, Zaynie. Just want a kiss.”

This time, Zayn is more agreeable. He makes a stubborn effort at driving Niall up the wall, though, with wet, smoochy kisses up Niall’s crack, dotting more on random spots up his back, finally arriving at Niall’s mouth. As the tip of his dick brushes Niall’s bum, Zayn groans. If the sound had a flavour, it’d be honey, and Zayn’s eyes light up as Niall pulls lightly on the drawer handle.

Zayn sticks his hand inside, grabbing haphazardly for something. He fishes out the lube and, tucked between his ring finger and pinky, a foil square.

“Yeah?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ knob,” Niall snorts, pushing his arse up to meet Zayn’s hips. Zayn kisses his cheek but accidentally gets his own hair in his mouth. “That’s what you get for having it so long.”

“I’ll get a haircut when Harry does,” Zayn promises.

Waiting for Zayn to get ready takes some of the pressure off of Niall’s need to hump the bed like a freak. He didn’t realise at the time, when he was flicking glances from the box he was packing to Zayn, who was slipping all of his colognes and fragrances into their original packaging and then into a bigger box, that he would miss the smell. Of Zayn, of his shampoo and conditioner and bodywash, of his skin, of his obsession with wearing a certain Gucci to suit his mood, of the food he made using his mum’s recipes and spices. Right now, Niall can smell Zayn’s sweat and the general scent of him, and it’s actually comforting.

Niall’s not surprised; Zayn always had that sort of effect on him.

Freshly lubed and slightly cool, Zayn’s fingers sink in with no drag. He seems to actually want to take it slow for the first time all night, even with Niall doing that half-twist turn again to get a good look at Zayn’s face, calm and steely with his concentration.

“Alright,” Zayn murmurs.

“You sound a bit breathless,” Niall grins. “Taken aback by my beauty? I could do porn noises, if you like.”

“You just make your noises, and I’ll make mine,” Zayn suggests, rubbing his dick against Niall’s hole.

A tiny push away from having Zayn inside him, Niall suddenly remembers the last time that they had sex. They had kissed so slowly; pulled their own clothes off instead of each other’s; and, once naked, they just stared as though they’d forgotten what came next. That was two days before Niall left Zayn at his front door, not even sparing him a little wave from his car because his vision was so foggy that he had to pull over around the corner, rest his forehead against the steering wheel, and cry himself into an asthma attack.

The memory snaps like a rubber band stretched too far, because Zayn is making this wonderfully deep whimpering sound, licking his lips next to Niall’s ear, and the full, thick weight of his cock starts to move further into him.

“I’ve missed your noises,” Niall groans, arching back into Zayn so he can meet his mouth, crooked angle working just fine for them.

“I’ve missed—” Zayn has to close his eyes and hold still for a second to find his voice without it going rocky. “—so many things, and if I had to list them off, we’d be here forever.”

Niall licks his lips and smiles. “Sounds good to me.”

Zayn grins, shifts that much deeper. “Yeah, and like, that’s a lovely thought, but I actually plan on coming tonight. You?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” Niall bumps back, hard cock sliding on the sheets. God, he feels like riding Zayn, and maybe he will, maybe they’ll wake up late all tired but horny, or maybe they’ll wait till they’re blowing on cups of coffee so that they can do it on the countertop. In the few seconds that Zayn just winds his hips in to loosen Niall up all he can, Niall prays for plenty of cock-riding opportunities.

Niall is sweating between his shoulderblades, on his stomach, down the crack of his arse, and Zayn’s hands are clammy too when he grabs Niall’s and squeezes gently, like a little warning before he starts to mouth at Niall’s neck. Niall giggles and Zayn nips and the skin, then grins against the curve of Niall’s jaw.

“I’ll blow a raspberry into your mouth,” Niall says.

“Good,” Zayn whispers, dipping his head for a kiss that ultimately ends because they’re laughing too hard, Niall having followed through on his threat.

The smartarse remark dies in Niall’s throat as Zayn pulls out halfway and shoves back in, making a good effort at some real thrusts rather than gentle back-and-forth rocking, and he gets the angle so perfectly that it’s like they’ve been practising for months.

“Yeah, I remember how you like it,” Zayn tells him smugly. “I’m gonna make you come on your bedsheets.”

“No,” Niall protests weakly – Zayn _knows_ that he hates that. Smothering his face into his pillow so that Zayn doesn’t get too obnoxious when he lets out a surprised cry, Niall lets the pout slip in favour of biting his lip. “Jesus fucking _dick_. Like that, again.”

“Love it when you’re bossy,” Zayn grunts, rolling his hips. Niall slips his free hand underneath himself and loops a firm ring around the base of his dick, even though it already feels like lasting longer than five minutes could be at the very end of a long list of possibilities, right after adopting a pet unicorn.

They hardly say much after that, swears and strings of them getting caught in their ragged breathing. They’re both too riled for this to be a very impressive romp in terms of time, but Zayn is making Niall’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and Niall suddenly shouts out Zayn’s name when Zayn rams into him, hitting his prostate dead-on.

“Niall,” Zayn gasps, and pulls out suddenly. He rolls Niall over and they scramble to get into place, the duvet tangled and forcefully discarded, Niall’s ankles ending up on Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn wanks Niall off in frantic strokes the second he’s back inside. It’s nearly too tight, too fast, but it works all the same.

“Zayn, Zayn, _Zayn_ ,” Niall repeats over and over, loving the effect it’s having on Zayn as much as himself. Zayn’s right here, fucking him and loving it, shiny and pretty and biting the left side of his bottom lip and working hard to get Niall off. Everything about this is beautiful, and Niall comes so hard that he barks out an _oh_ , taking the squeeze on his hip to mean that Zayn’s on exactly the same page.

“Shit,” Zayn pants. He slows right down to get a couple of lazy pushes, and his brows stay low. “What the fuck kind’a sound was that?”

“It was…” Niall swallows his breath. It’s too soon, really, for Zayn to be asking these sorts of questions, but Niall indulges him. “…a _wow, thank you, I’m ever so fuckin’ glad you showed up, best shag in months_ sound.” He smirks and feigns hurt. “Y’told me you loved my sounds.”

Zayn falters in whatever kind of surprise-confused look he’s going for, bursting into that stunning, nose-scrunched, tongue-between-teeth, giggly laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. It isn’t, and Niall knows that, but he can’t help lighting up from the inside-out, beaming and grinning, too.

“You’re such a prick.” Zayn’s shaking his head, peeling off the condom and saving the duvet from the bed’s edge.

“Oi. Learned my pillow talk listening Harry Styles himself,” Niall claims, and Zayn just quirks his thick eyebrows with a lopsided smirk. “Aw, come on, don’t tell me that your memory’s wasted on stupid shit like me eating chicken sandwiches, when there are much more golden times, like when we stayed in hotels and had to share rooms. Harry was a menace with the ladies he pulled.”

“I’m not talking about Harry’s sex life while I’m, like, in bed with you,” Zayn says. He puts on a show of cringing when Niall flings his soiled tissues to the floor rather than the bin.

“I’ll pick ’em up in the morning,” Niall says.

Zayn shakes his head again, this time more like he can’t believe it. He crawls over Niall, resettles between his legs, gentler than before, and they kiss, switching between long, slow snogs, and cheeky little pecks. Even when they’re spooning, Zayn’s hand won’t stop wandering up and down Niall’s thigh, taking his time with leisurely strokes beneath the duvet. And it feels like they’re going to be alright.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

When Niall wakes up, Zayn is still sleeping. Apparently, nothing has changed in the way Zayn snoozes well into noon, so Niall lets him have this one while he thinks about boxes, about toothbrushes, about morning sex, and about coffee. God, he could use a cuppa right now.

The kitchen is overwhelmed by midday sun, rays catching on the fridge and nearly blinding Niall when he enters. He plugs in the machine and makes himself a drink with automatic, half-dead movements, eyes closed most of the time. After downing half he manages to recall how Zayn likes his, amazing himself at how easy it is to get back into the rhythm of their mornings. Niall makes the second mug, a short black in a tiny cup, like how gangsters drink theirs in _The Sopranos_.

To give Zayn every second of beauty sleep he can get—not that he needs it, the bastard—Niall decides to finish his before he wakes Zayn up. Drinking coffee in his boxers at 12pm on a Saturday while he stares longingly at his barbeque and wonders when it’ll get warm enough to use it again isn’t totally rare for him, the only oddity being that he’ll be crawling back into bed soon so that he can cuddle his… boyfriend? Jesus, he hopes so. Niall snickers to himself and takes another sip. If Zayn says they’re not boyfriends now, he can make his own fucking coffee.

Within minutes, Zayn himself comes down the stairs, model-like squint to his eyes. His pout eases into a sleepy smile when he finds his own mug, taking a silent swallow of it.

“No idea how you can drink it like that,” Niall says, going in for a kiss.

Zayn opens his mouth a little, purposefully making Niall taste the bitterness of his coffee. “Like what?” he teases.

“Strong,” Niall says, giving Zayn a teasing peck, “thick,” another, “and with no sugar.”

“I’ve got you, haven’t I? Why would I need anything sweeter?” Zayn waggles his eyebrows and Niall groans.

“ _Now_ who sounds like Harry?” he says.

Zayn brings his hand up—the one he’d been resting behind the counter—and he’s holding Niall’s contract. “Found this while I was looking for pants. You’ve changed your room around, like. Don’t know my way around, anymore.”

Swallowing and licking his lips, Niall looks away. He’d thought upon rolling out of bed this morning that he finally knew for sure that he can’t say yes to Syco. He’s twenty four and deserves happiness, and he can get that on the road, sure, but his brand of happiness involves Zayn, and those two just don’t seem to mix.

“You should do it,” Zayn says, and Niall’s head nearly falls off his neck when his gaze snaps back to the lad he’s in love with, the same lad who couldn’t stand the thought of Niall going on tour, and is now pushing for another one. “Like, you want to, right?”

“Yeah, but Zayn…” Niall holds Zayn’s waist in his hand, warmth radiating off his dark skin like he’s the sun trapped in human form. Niall just needs to feel Zayn under his fingers, to have that connection as a reminder to them both how much this could mean to them. Another shot could be all they need, and he’s not going to throw that away, and neither should Zayn.

“We can do it,” Zayn insists.

“We couldn’t, last time,” Niall points out.

“We’re different. We— _I_ was being selfish, but I know what my life’s like without you, now, and it was, like, fucking awful. I can’t hold you back from things you want to do,” Zayn says, his eyes honest and hopeful in a way that Niall couldn’t resist if he tried. “So long as I’m who you want to come home to, and you’re coming home to me at the end of it, we can make this—” He holds up the papers. “—work. Like, we sold out entire _stadiums_ at twenty and twenty-one. If we can do that, we can last six months of visits.”

“Actually,” Niall says, smile hurting his cheeks even though he’s trying to turn it down a notch, “this one’s only for three months, and just through Europe.”

“Sick. Even better,” Zayn nods. He sounds like he means it.

Niall brings up something that, when he said it seven months ago, had made Zayn— Actually, it doesn’t matter what it’d made Zayn feel. This is _here_. This is _now_. Niall says, “Or, instead of lounging around, emptying my fridge, you could come with me.”

Zayn chews his lip but it hardly quells his grin, and Niall has no idea why they’re fighting to contain this overload of giddiness and excitement.

“Three months of us on tour, and my manager’s set it up so I’m doing a show every three days. We could do the shows together, yeah? Be the tourists we didn’t get to be when we were younger. Do a few shows, keep each other company in hotels, check out the local shit, and all that other stuff.”

“Your manager could do that? Syco would, like, let us?” Zayn asks, which is basically a _yes_.

“They’d write us a contract the second they wiped the dollar signs off their eyes,” Niall says.

“Okay.” Zayn licks his lips and suddenly bursts into a massive grin. “Yeah. Cool.”

Niall hugs Zayn so tightly that Zayn’s cup tips lukewarm coffee down his back and that doesn’t even stop him – he doesn’t know how he _could_ stop when Zayn’s just agreed to tour with him, when everything is going to be great again.

“So I’m moving back in, then?” Zayn asks.

“Shit, yeah,” Niall cackles, only pulling away so that he can mash their mouths into something way too messy to classify as a kiss. “Your ping pong table can go in our bedroom, if you want,” he says as they finally pull away.

“That _would_ make it easier to pass out after beer pong,” Zayn reasons. His fingers slip through the mess on Niall’s back. “Hm. Maybe we should clean you up before we get started on that.”

“If you want me to blow you in the shower, you could just ask,” Niall tells him, rubbing his nose against Zayn’s neck.

They actually stay there for a while, hugging against the counter with coffee soaking the waistband of Niall’s briefs, morning-after sweat not quite in the stinky stage. Zayn’s cologne has worn off, so he just smells like him, like how he always did when they woke up together.

“I love you,” Zayn says, voice tender and quiet.

“I love you, too,” Niall replies, just as softly, because of course he fucking does. Did he ever even stop?

“Now, like, let’s get that _strong_ , _thick_ , _sugarless_ coffee off your back,” Zayn suggests.

“A stellar idea,” Niall agrees, already walking backwards on the balls of his feet like a really shitty ballerina, holding Zayn in his arms and not able to think of anything better than this. “You never got to taste my bubblegum toothpaste, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 5 Seconds of Summer's _Close As Strangers_.
> 
> Tumblr is [camonialle](http://camonialle.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> * * *
> 
> I took this prompt because a couple of months back, I broke up with my boyfriend. I loved him so much at the time, but nearing the end of our relationship he said some very mean, disrespectful, and all-round selfish things regarding me, my body, and his sense of entitlement towards it.
> 
> Never in my life have I regretted a breakup, and that didn't change because of him. However, I was very upset, more so than I'd ever been about this kind of thing, and definitely more than I could admit to people. For a few days I even did something that I'd never really done before when it came to relationships, platonic or otherwise - I doubted myself. It was awful. I wondered how much of what he said was true, if we really _did_ "have" to do certain things because we were together, if he _should_ have a say in the decisions I make about my body and what I do with it, and if I could have been more sympathetic towards him and his dick.
> 
> This fic isn't a reflection about how I feel regarding the relationship; I don't want to get back together with him, and I feel stronger--and more empowered--knowing that I was confronted by these worries brought on by someone I felt strongly about, and conquered them anyway. To me, this fic is about remembering all the sudden pain and hurt, growing from it, and moving on.
> 
> This is about the brief but important journey it took for me to rediscover my happiness and confidence in both myself and my sexuality.
> 
> Feel free to leave a message/comment if you have gone through something similar, and want to talk about it.


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